The Black Elfstone

Chapter OneTigueron, the leader of Orsis Guild and one of the most feared assassins in all Varfleet, sat alone at a table in the back of the Bullfinch tavern, waiting. Smoke from pipes clamped between teeth and oil lamps set upon tables clouded the air with a pungent haze, wafting to the rafters and along the walls. Smokeless lamps were discouraged in places like this where so many of the customers preferred anonymity. It was crowded enough that such anonymity would have been impossible otherwise, and Tigueron did not necessarily disagree with the reasoning of his fellow patrons. The noise was ferocious-shouts and laughter and conversations fighting to reach the ears of those seated just across the table from each other. Pitchers filled glasses, which rose to meet eager mouths, which gulped and swallowed until the ale was gone and the glasses refilled to begin the process anew. Much of the amber liquid was spilled on the wooden boards of the worn tavern floor, and more than a little stained the clothes of the customers. Manners were not anywhere near as popular as raucous behavior.Tigueron hunched over his glass, watching everything around him without seeming to do so. Watching, but mostly waiting.He was a big man, burly and muscular, his head heavy on his shoulders, his face rough-featured and scarred, his hair cut short and close to his scalp, his broken nose prominent, and his eyes hard and empty. He wore a heavy cloak with the hood pulled back and the drawstrings unfastened. It was warm in the cavernous drinking room, but he ignored it. The cloak served a more useful purpose than providing warmth. Beneath it were seven blades, all hidden in various sheaths within his clothing, all readily within reach-any one of them so sharp it could cut through bone. He never went anywhere without them.His eyes shifted to the tavern's front doors. A client was coming but had not yet arrived. It was unusual for Tigueron to meet with a client under such circumstances. Normally, such meetings took place in the cellars of his fortress lair, Revelations, where he was surrounded by protections and protectors and in complete control of any situation. But this client had been insistent. The meeting was to take place in a public house-a demand Tigueron would have ordinarily dismissed out of hand. But a rather large number of credits placed in the hands of those who vetted such requests-some of which were passed on to him-persuaded him of the other's seriousness and proved an inducement too persuasive to ignore. No advantage to either party, the client had insisted. No danger that one or the other might act inappropriately.Which clearly meant Tigueron, since the client would have had no advantage at all available in Revelations.Yet the promise of further credits in such large amounts was intriguing. What harm could it do to hear the client out? His enemies would never invite Tigueron to a tavern to do him in. They would be subtler in their efforts. Besides, he was too cautious not to guard against such attempts. After all, he was in the business of bringing harm to others rather than to himself.He glanced over to the men sitting at a table nearby. Three hardened, experienced killers who worked for him and would come to his aid in an instant if he was threatened. Not to mention that he was his own best weapon. Others had tried to kill him in the past. He had buried them all.Outside, the wind was howling. The shutters, closed and latched, rattled against their casings with its force. Tigueron had seen the storm approaching on his way to this meeting, huge black clouds rolling in from the west filled with lightning and thunder, a dark promise of the deluge yet to come. But he made no move to leave, even though the client was late. He simply waited. He was good at waiting. It was very much a requirement of his work. Still, he could see that his associates were growing restless, their bodi